A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood
by Alone Dreaming
Summary: Mary Winchester tries to leave the past behind her. It's not so easy with black dogs roaming the neighborhood and a strange man calling himself Jimmy Hendrix cutting her yard.
1. A Black Dog by a White House

_**A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood**_

**By Alone Dreaming**

**Rating:** PG-13 (for strong language and blood)

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Supernatural. If I did, they would've said yes by now.

**Warnings:** A nasty boo-boo, strong, strong language, generally confusing misplacement of timelines and complete disregard of a few of the more recent time travelling episodes

**Author's Note: **I just like to scribble in this genre every now and again as I work on my other stories. My style here is very different from my style elsewhere but it's fun to play with. This story was conceived and penned (originally) long before Castiel, time travelling, and any revelations about Mary Winchester's past. Enjoy with the knowledge that I self-beta and often miss things as I re-read.

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Mary Winchester pulls into the driveway with her minivan, parking center because John's taken to parking on the street. The engine coughs a bit as she turns it off and she's reminded that this car, while a great thought, probably will cost more to upkeep than it's worth. Honestly, she can wait until John gets home to do chores, and if not, she can have someone else pick things up for her. She opens the door and stares at the slight slope of the drive, judging distances before lowering herself down. Yeah, she's getting a little too pregnant to be doing much anyway.

"Need a hand, beautiful?"

She smiles despite herself and lets him take her hand as she stabilizes. He flashes a grin her way, boyish, flirting and, completely, harmless. "Well, from a handsome man, anytime."

"Aw, making me blush, Mrs. W," he says, his skin belying the exact opposite. Without asking her, he opens the backseat up. "Hey, big man!"

Dean, who's been quiet up until now, starts squirming in his seat. He's every bit of wild three and wants to move all the time. "Out, out!"

"Of course! You're being good for your Mom, right?" He swoops in to remove the seat belt while Mary waddles towards the back of the car. Her smile broadens as the conversation continues.

"Always good for, Mommy," her child insists as he squiggles out of the car. "Always! She's gonna have my little brother soon."

"Yeah, I've heard! You picked out his name yet?"

"Sam-yew-l," the hyper-pronunciation holds a slight lisp. "Right, Mommy?"

She peers around at him. "Yes, that's right. Here—come help me with—"

"Oh no, Mrs. W," he says, closing the door behind him. "I'll get it for you. Dean here's going to take you inside and get you something to drink, aren't ya?" When the child looks ready to protest, he continues, "Because that way, once we get the groceries put up, you can help me weed the Emersons' garden and I'll get you some nice worms."

The light flickers on in Dean's eyes and she has to repress a groan. She responds to his wink with an eye roll—that's smashed worms on the porch again—and let's Dean lead her inside. As she takes her time, she watches him out of the corner of her eye, slinging bags onto his arms, his movements calculated but non-offensive. Just the local trademan, he always states, as he mows lawns, and repairs houses, and looks at cars, and helps little old ladies cross the street. No one suspects, except her, that he's up to something else; but she's seen him hauling around bags of salt and lining the gardens, saying it's to keep away slugs, and dragging about bottles of water, saying he's just washing up paint. She knows better though, can see the signs, hasn't missed the tattoo on his chest when he's mowing the lawn, notes how he tucks a rosary in his pocket. After all, she's been raised this way. But she's left it all behind her so she doesn't say anything to John, who's taken quite a shine to him; she just watches and waits.

Dean gets her a cup of water and then rushes out to help him with the groceries. He totters back with the bread in his tiny arms while the "tradesman" takes everything else over to the counter. His shirt has rings of sweat on it, showing how long his day's been already. Everyone on the street pays him a bit to keep things neat and tidy, enough that he makes an okay living and the neighborhood stays fresh and clean. He does big things, little things and plain nice things—like taking Dean out to play so she can have a break or getting Mr. Cuddlemuffin, Mrs. Perkins cat, out of a tree.

"I'll put everything away," she insists, standing up. The baby kicks and she pauses, letting her hand fall on her stomach. "You boys get out of my kitchen."

"Yes'm," he says, bowing. "Come on, big man."

"Not before I get a kiss," she leans over just a little and Dean stands on his tiptoes so he can plant a sloppy one on her cheek. "You be good." The boy shoots out the door, the screen slamming behind him, while he follows at a slower pace. "You will be joining us for dinner, right?"

"If you'll have me, Mrs. W," he replies with a grin.

She watches him go, his strangely fitting jeans and shirt for a band she's never heard of and wonders who he is really. He goes by the name Jimmy Hendrix but no one believes him. At first, the pseudonym caused mistrust but now, everyone just accepts he's hiding from his past. He's paid in cash, he does a good job and he's taken care of the neighborhood. The stay at home moms, which she's part of (she still can't believe it sometimes), feel more comfortable with a strapping young man wandering about.

Still, she makes sure John's shotgun is always loaded and nearby. Just in case.

She puts away the groceries, starts dinner, takes a seat every now and again because her back hurts. Her eyes stray to the window when she's not stirring sauce and preparing garlic bread. From her vantage point, she can just make out a big shape and little shape wandering a distant yard. The big shape works with tools while the little one carries around a bucket. She reminds herself that he's never done anything untrustworthy and that, if anything, he's protecting them all. She tells herself that John's a good judge of character and he adores Jimmy. But the roiling pit of her stomach tells her that there is something off here.

Her thoughts almost cause her to burn the sauce and she forces herself back to it. The door opens and closes, and she hears the familiar gait of her husband. Arms wrap around her and a kiss lands on her cheek. She smells oil and sweat with aftershave which should be disgusting but is absolutely wonderful. His chin rests on her shoulder, his breath on the junction of her neck, his warmth reminding her that she's safe, for now, if not forever.

"How's my girl?" he asks, staring down at the spaghetti.

"Tired," she answers, honestly. "But good. How's my man?"

"Tired, but good," he returns, kissing her again. "Why don't you sit down and let me finish?"

She lets out a huff of annoyance but gives up her place at the stove. Independence is something she's always had and she doesn't want to give it up; but her sore feet demand rest so she lets him settle her in a chair.

"So, where's my boy?" he asks, peeking at the garlic bread.

"With Jimmy," she says, sipping at the water and knowing soon she's going to be in the bathroom.

John pulls out the garlic bread. "Digging up worms?"

"What else? Getting him all muddy so that we'll have to bathe him before dinner."

"Good for him," John says, checking the pasta. He smiles, "Good role model for him."

She wants to argue, wants to say that he has no idea what this Jimmy might be capable of, wants to tell him all about demons and witchcraft. But that's behind her, "Yes, I suppose so."

"Now, Mary," he begins.

"I know, John."

His lips twist a little wryly and he peers out the window.

The change in his face is instantaneous. One moment, he is her calm, gentle husband, a man with power but control. The next, he's the warrior who fought in the war, all of the raw energy at the surface. He dives under the sink, dragging out the shotgun, eyes wild and she jerks out of her chair, hobbling to the window to see what's going on. Her heart starts thrumming violently against her ribs, her head starts to feel light, her vision blurs.

"Stay here," John shouts somewhere in the distance as he flings himself over the threshold but she's focused on the horror unfolding before her.

Dean's screaming, cowering behind Jimmy. Jimmy has one arm tossed back around him in a protective manner while the other arm is outstretched with some sort of bottle in it. Before the two of them, at least three feet at the shoulder, crouches a beast, black, muscular and vicious. She knows what it is without seeing its face, without any further investigation; black dog, her mind screeches, black dog! And it's coming after her baby; she should've never let him near a hunter. She should've known better.

She staggers out of the house after John, who has the shotgun leveled as he's running, trying to get a clear shot. Those bullets won't stop it though—she tries to call this out to him—only make it angrier. The holy water Jimmy has in hand won't stop it either, though it may deter it long enough to get Dean to safety. She stops, gasping, her chest tight with panic and is helpless to stop John as he continues his advance. No, she can't lose him, lose them both, not to this; she's worked too hard to build her normal life to lose it to this.

John pulls the trigger, a barking sound filling the air. The dog lunges at the same moment, taking the blast at the hip. The momentum throws the jump off slightly so that instead of hitting Jimmy's throat, the dog's fangs latch onto his shoulder. Dean screams, Jimmy shouts and a mass of bodies go down. John adds his own war call to the din and she's aware of the neighbors coming out. She has to sit down, now, she thinks dizzily, sinking onto the curb. No, wait, she has to act. Her mind spins and the bodies before her eyes blur into a mass of black, blood and wails. No, no, no becomes a mantra in her mind. No, not her baby, not her husband, not her new, wonderful life; not like this.

A ghostly howl echoes through the air and the black dog shoots away down the street, pursued by Jack Peterson and his two sons. Someone has a hand on her shoulder and she manages to lift her head enough to see Marjory Jackson next to her, a hand over her mouth. She has to get up, has to make sure Dean's okay, but she can't get her legs to work. From her position, she cannot separate John from Jimmy from her baby and it's making it hard for her to breath. Her heart's in her mouth.

"Help me up," she gasps, pressing her hand over Marjory's. "Please, help me up."

Marjory does it, trying to support her when she gets to her feet, but she's off too quickly for her friend. She stumbles, staggers but gets close enough to see John cradling Dean close, the shotgun at his feet. Jimmy's lying there, too, but she only has eyes for her boys, her wonderful boys. Her arms latch around the both of them when she reaches them. Dean's sobbing softly, but he looks okay, unhurt, just scared. John locks eyes with her, not his normal softness, but the harsh darkness of the military and presses their child into her arms. Then he drops down next to Jimmy, who, she notices for the first time, is lying twisting and gasping on the ground. His shoulder doesn't look like a shoulder anymore, crushed and bloodied and raw; she tries to make sure Dean doesn't see it but can barely look away from it herself.

"Hey, kid," John's saying, dragging off his jacket. "Easy does it." Then, at the top of his lungs, "Somebody call a goddamn ambulance!" Then back to Jimmy, "Easy does it there. Easy."

"Oh shit," Jimmy whimpers between gritted teeth. "Oh shit, Dad, it hurts."

John's brow crinkles in concern. "I know, but it's gonna be okay. You're a damn hero, right? Heroes survive."

"R-right," he hisses between clenched teeth. "Oh, fuck, shit. God, Dad, hurts. Hurts. Fuck."

Delirious, she thinks, wound needs to be cleansed, she thinks, but her first priority is shushing Dean. She cradles him and makes soothing sounds which she cannot force heart into and tells him, "It's okay, baby, it's okay. Momma's here. I've got you."

"The doggie was mean," he cries. "The doggie tried to bite!"

"I know, baby, I know," she soothes. "It was a bad doggie." And not a real dog at all, she thinks. She hopes that the Peterson men don't actually catch up to it because whatever they have on hand won't be able to take it down. They'll end up like Jimmy or worse.

"Mary, Mary," Jenna Peterson's at her side. "Let's sit down." Then, sturdy, firm, under control, as always, "John, an ambulance is coming. What do you need?"

John looks up. "Towels, Jen." And then he has his attention on Jimmy. "Hey, kid, stay with me. You fall asleep and you don't get dinner."

"F-fuck..." gasps Jimmy. "...dinner...S-since when d-do you cook?"

"Hey, now, that's my wife's cooking you're talking about," John keeps the banter going, even as Jenna's pulling her away. "Last time I checked, you loved garlic bread."

Jimmy's throat's swallowing frantically. "M-mom's here?" His head turns to the side and their eyes meet. "M-mom?"

"Mary, let's go sit," Jenna insists but she's fixated on those eyes, green, piercing and completely lucid.

"Mom?" he says again, voice fading. She recognizes that gaze, after months of staring at it and not thinking anything of it, because those eyes are the same as the ones that look at her adoringly as she tucks Dean into bed. Her heart speeds up faster.

John moves between them and Jenna leads her so she's sitting on the Peterson's front porch, rocking her baby. Her ears can still pick up the moans and comforts coming from the direction of Jimmy and John.

"Dad, Mom's here," Jimmy keeps saying, as though he's amazed, as though she's gone somewhere.

"Jim, you know who I am?" John's voice remains low, gentle, soothing; she wonders how many men he spoke to this way on the battlefield.

"Dad..."

"Fuck it. Jen? The towels?"

"I've got them, here."

"You're gonna be okay, Jim."

"Mommy?" Dean's voice is quiet, meek, not at all like the headstrong child she's used to. She looks at him.

She swallows hard. "Yes, baby?"

"I dropped my worms."

Biting her lip, she holds him closer, tighter and whispers, "So have I, baby, so have I."


	2. A Red Liquid on a Green Lawn

Chapter Two, here by popular request, and with the encouragement of **rockpaperscissors**. Without your compliments, critiques and self-esteem bolstering, this would not have continued. More than I deserve and so exceedingly helpful. So, I dedicate this to you, RPS, with my sincere thanks.

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At some point, John Winchester took a left turn at Albuquerque and ended up in Mister Rogers's Neighborhood. Not that this isn't a good thing; he's got priorities these days in the form of a pregnant wife and a rambunctious four year old. He just never saw himself as the nine to five guy, driving home to a two story house in the suburbs. Sometimes, he thinks he's living someone else's life when he wakes up and pecks Mary on the cheek; the love in her eyes , the utter faith in Dean's smile, the gentle kick of Sam's foot against his hand remind him he has a purpose now. It chills him more than the war when he thinks about it too hard so he shoves it into the back of his mind where it gnaws at his skull and rots his brain.

Still, he thinks he hears that jaunty tune in his brain as he drinks a beer with Jack Peterson and watches the kids play. Jack's sons, Tommy and Joseph, lead a rough game of football while the smaller kids and a few of the girls tumble about on the swings and slide. Mary laughs with Marjory and Jenna, who both pat the impressive bump she's growing, and he notes how radiant she seems, how happy she is, how she's so changed from the woman he first met in the home of an overly controlling father. Eloping was the best decision the two of them ever made, disappearing the hardest but safest choice; but, still, as he finishes the drink and goes to help serve up the hamburgers, he feels out of place.

"A bit stiff, there, old man," Jimmy Hendrix says, appearing almost silently. John swears under his breath—and Jim laughs—because he could've sworn the kid was under a dog pile of squirming bodies, the football clutched in his arms.

"Thought you had a fence to paint," he snapped, putting some space between them.

"Tom Sawyer has his tricks and so do I," Jim replies. He holds a flask of something that definitely doesn't smell of soda or Budweiser. When he offers it to John, John takes it and lets it burn its way down his throat.

"Yeah, well, once you stop your pacts with the devil, let me know," he jabs and frowns at Jim's sudden change in expression. It's subtle, barely visible, but he knows it. There are moments where the same feeling shoots through him, when he's removed from the safety of suburbia and back on his belly in the jungle.

"Sure thing, John," he stumbles over the name, salutes, and waltzes off jauntily.

Jimmy Hendrix doesn't make sense to him. He throws John off while, at the same time, fitting John perfectly. Part of him senses a fellow soldier though Jimmy's denied any involvement in recent politics—"Viet-what?"—while another senses something far deeper. Jim came with this neighborhood—Jack told him his second day in that the residents on the street paid Jim to do yard work, house clean up, miscellaneous chores and he could feel free to chip in—but Jim doesn't belong with it. There's an edginess there that doesn't fit with the perfection of the American dream.

He pays the fees, gets to spend his weekends taking Dean to the park and Mary out to dinner instead of mowing the lawn or trimming the hedges. While he's at work, he has the security of knowing that there's a man who can fight—he once watched Jim take on a guy twice his size, and win, without getting winded—roaming near his house, even if it's with a bucket of paint or a pair of pliers. He has to put up with the kid's mouth, his flirtations with his wife, his strangely predatory disposition, but it's worth the costs; and hell, he'll admit it, he actually likes Jim a bit. Enough that he invites him to dinner almost every Friday.

He doesn't expect it to be anything more than another beautiful day in the neighborhood until he's hovering over the kid's—no, he's a man, a man John's age, a man in pain—body as he writhes and whimpers and wells blood so the grass looks like Christmas. Physically, he's aware that he's in Kansas, in Lawrence, soothing his handyman but a part of him hovers low in the tall grass, holding another man's head out of the water. The red on his fingers squirts, drips, puddles about; the voice that meets his ears is one but a hundred at once.

And all he suddenly wants is to be safe in his distant illusion of Pleasantville. His eyes wander up from Jim's so he can see his Mary and his Dean, both unharmed, if traumatized. Mary has turned the same white as the Peterson's steps, the same white as the towels, the same white as the bone poking through the skin and muscle in Jim's shoulder. His heart thrums with the adrenaline of caring for an injured man, with the adrenaline of protecting his charges, with the adrenaline of fearing—painful, chest rending fear—for his family. It contrasts starkly with the sudden relief of finding both of them fine.

"Dad," Jim whines, pawing at his hands as he wraps the towels around the worst of the injury and holds on. "Oh fuck."

"If my kid starts using that word, I'm washing your mouth out with soap," he warns. Jim's head tilts one direction then another, his eyes glassy. "Hey, where do you think you're going?"

"Nowhere," Jim slurs. "Nowhere. Sticking with Sammy. Just like you said."

Delirious. Has to be. That's all right. He can handle disassociation. He's been a grandfather, a dad, a mom, a brother, a boyfriend, a girlfriend, more than once. Still, it's the clarity that still lurks in Jim's gaze that frightens him, especially when he looks at Mary and calls her 'Mom.' "Yeah, well, stick with me. All right? You still owe me a gutter cleaning."

"I just want to go home," Jim sounds tiny and pathetic, a puppy as opposed to the big guard dog he normally plays. "Please, please, Dad, I want to go home."

"Soon," he promises and lies. "You just need to do this last thing, soldier. Got it? Then you get to go home." Sirens; he can hear the sirens coming, hear Jack and his sons returning, hear Jim's breathing roughening and his pulse slowing. "You listening?"

"Y'sir," Jim mumbles and they lock eyes.

John's stomach drops. He knows that expression, the apology right before the lights go out, the silent plea to, "Tell Mom and Dad I love them" or "Give this letter to my fiancé" or "I didn't want to go this way." Jim may not be all there but he's doing what every soldier does on his deathbed; he's regretting the pain he's about to give the ones he loves.

"You're going to live," he commands in his strongest tone. He uses it with Dean when the four year old refuses to clean up his room or go to bed. "And you're going to fix that shingle on the roof."

"Oh sh't," Jim hisses because he leans down harder, feels the gritting of bones but is too concerned by the saturation to care. "Oh shit, Dad, I'm—fuck. I'm dying."

"Suck it up, you pussy," John tells him, relieved by the new wave of fight. "No nurse wants to screw a whiner."

And, without warning, Jim passes out.

He can't wake him up, even when he trades places with Jenna who doesn't cringe away from the injury. She's a good woman, Jenna, "tiny but fierce" he usually teases, and he uses his freedom to check Jim's pulse and breathing. He taps his face, does a sternal rub, pinches the soft inside of the man's arms and frowns at the familiar birthmark just under his armpit. Then he dismisses it as the EMTs unload from the ambulance and remove the problem from him. They cart Jim away with the curt warning that they're taking him to county.

"John," Jenna touches him and he nearly jumps out of his skin. "Here, wipe off."

He obeys stoically, feeling oddly displaced. The blood catches in his creases and under his nails, dyes his skin. It will take scrubbing and time to remove it all and he knows that this will join his nightmares. For some reason, he's shaking a bit; and his gorge rises and he swallows it down. It takes Mary grasping his face, brushing away the sweat from his cheeks, for him to brace in reality again. The mosquitoes and the humidity flee and leave him in the fading sunlight of the Kansas night. A gentle kiss on his lips assures him that it's real.

"It didn't get you, did it?" Mary whispers, stroking his neck, his chest, his ears, lithe fingers searching for hurts.

"Dean's okay?" he asks, not sure why he feels like he's almost lost something important.

"Scared, but he's fine. Not even a scratch," her lip trembles. "He's just fine." Tears drip down her cheeks. "How's my man?"

He licks his dry lips. "Take Dean inside." He sees Marjory Jackson petting Dean's head even as he squirms to get to them. "And I want you to sit down. Marjory'll take care of you."

"John," Mary begins, suddenly tough like she used to be instead of the hormonal, pregnant woman.

"Please," his voice cracks a bit. "I have to go to the hospital."

"I'll drive," Jack Peterson says. He tosses his gun to Joseph. "Tommy, walk Mrs. Winchester home. Joseph, help your Mom with those towels."

"Mommy," Dean shrieks. "Mommy!"

"John, I really think I should go with you," Mary insists as he sheds his flannel button up and grimaces at the glowing red on his white undershirt.

"I'll call you soon as we know what's happening," he grasps her shoulders. "Mary…" She tries to say something more, but he kisses her before she can utter a word and strides after Jack.


	3. A Real Girl in an Imaginary Life

Thanks for all the reviews. Here's chapter three.

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Her Dad would've referred to Marjory Jackson as useless but Mary Winchester has learned to appreciate the value of a woman who can care for a home, a child and a husband. Marge falls to pieces in the face of danger or at the sight of blood—Mary remembers when Cynthia, Marge's eldest, cracked her chin on a picnic table vividly—but she knows how to clean a kitchen, cook a meal and soothe the discomforts of a bad day. As Tommy half-carries her to the house, Marge cradles her Dean, presses kisses on his head, strokes the little bruise on his left arm; Mary feels a surge of jealousy at this natural instinct, wishes she could do that now, but she can barely stand. The adrenaline has worn off and the only thing keeping her on her feet is Tommy's arm. In the eyes of her father, Marjory isn't worth the food it would take to feed her; in the eyes of Mary Winchester, Marjory is worth more than gold.

The house smells like burned food; she takes a side trip to the bathroom with Tommy carefully holding her, and vomits into the toilet. Her guts churn, Sam kicks, and she wants to cry with how twisted her emotions are. She can feel Tommy squirming next to her—he's a good kid, Jenna and Jack have raised him well—and she cannot blame him for his discomfort. Out of the corner of her eye, she watches him jam his hands into his pockets and slouch in the doorway, face turned from her. She retches again and brings up the water.

"Tommy, why don't you watch Dean for a moment?" Marjory's next to him, shooing him off to the living room. The faucet turns and cold water drips forth. "Mary, sweetie? Here, wipe your mouth up real quick and let's give you a lie down."

Growing up in the no nonsense household made her hate being cared for and hate feeling like a burden. Once upon a time, she stitched up her own wounds, woke herself up every two hours for concussions, set her own dislocated bones; now, she bows to Marjory's concern and takes the washcloth to her lips. A moment later, Marjory removes it from her hands and helps her to her feet. Her friend's face shows nothing of her father's disapproval, only the warm glow of love; for some reason, it makes her feel worse.

"You should change, maybe," Marjory suggests, and Mary follows her gaze to the splatters of blood on her dress and the grass stains. "And then you should go to bed."

Her nose wrinkles. "No," her voice is a croak, "no, on the couch, Marge. I want to wait up for John."

"Only if you rest, Mary," Marge sounds like a mother that she'd always wanted and, now, cannot accept. "It's not good for little Sam, all this stress."

She agrees, let's Marge help her pull off the maternity clothing and slip into her nightgown. The process takes far longer than she's used to, even as massively pregnant as she is; her hands keep shaking, her head spins and she continually needs to sit down. Downstairs, she can hear Dean, his voice a whine and a cry all at once, while Tommy tries to comfort him. She wants to be downstairs with him, to pet his head and to sing the song her Mom sang to her when she was young, warning about the bad animals of the night. But that only makes her more tired, makes her sit down more often, makes Marge's frown deepen with each passing second.

"I think you need to stay in bed," Marge decides after she places the gown in the hamper.

Mary sits on the edge of her bed, her head in her hands. "Downstairs, please, Marge." Her voice holds the edge it used to before, when she hunted, when someone she saved fussed about a hurt. Except, back then, she never added the "please."

Marge acquiesces, takes Mary's arm in one hand and snatches the pillows off the bed with the other. Their descent is agonizingly slow, and Dean's whimpers nearly drive her mad, but they reach the bottom, eventually. Tommy has Dean sitting next to him, an arm around his shoulders; he raises his eyebrows when they enter but doesn't move. Dean breaks the embrace instead, standing up and rushing over, only to be stopped by Marjory's arm.

"You need to be gentle," she tells him. "Your Mommy doesn't feel well."

Her first reaction is to snap at Marjory. Dean can hug her anytime, no matter what, even if she's half-eviscerated, but then the dizziness hits her again and proves Marge's point. Tommy bolts up and catches her, and together, he and Marge lower her onto the couch. Dean waits patiently, wearing his big boy face, but his lip trembles and his eyes are puffed up from tears. He crawls up next to her as Marjory fluffs the pillows, pressing against her side, clutching at her nightshirt.

"Wish I coulds sits in your lap," he says, "and give you a teddy bear hug."

She wants to cry all the sudden but holds it in, dipping her head to the side so it rests on his. "A side hug works just as well."

"Nos," he argues. Then, he moves so his hand pets her stomach. "But Sam-yew-l will do it. Won't you, Sammy?"

Damn hormones; she's never getting pregnant again, not after this mess. Two boys will do just fine for her, thank you. She kisses Dean's head and lets the tears drip into his hair. In front of her, Marjory's giving Tommy orders which he accepts readily and bolts from the room. Marjory shifts her so she's lying down and Dean's curled up next to her, grubby and clingy. She even draws a blanket over the pair of them.

"If you need something, holler," she tells Mary. "I'm going to clean the kitchen. Cynthia will be over in a bit to give Dean a bath."

"Don't want a bath," Dean replies, grumpily. "Want to stay here."

She wants him to stay too but nods to Marjory so that the other woman sweeps off to stop the house from catching fire. It hurts to see someone so organized, so motherly, so different than her work in her home, command her child, be everything that she simply can't. Her father told her long ago that hunting was a part of her and no matter how far she ran, how deeply she buried herself, the monsters in her closet would emerge and drag her down. For six years, she'd lived in safety and she'd almost forgotten the warning; now, she thinks she may have been a fool for trying. Marjory may be useless but she can live this life; Mary Winchester can only act, a little girl playing pretend.

At some point, she dozes off because when the next thing she hears are Dean's sleepy protests as Cynthia picks him up. Cynthia looks like her mother, thin, pale, hollow grey eyes in a freckled face; Dean likes her normally, enjoys how she plays dragons with him and pushes him on the swings. But right now, he cries for Mary and Mary sits up, aching, to take him back. Cynthia gives her a look of apology as Mary awkwardly holds him around Sammy, letting him wrap his arms around her neck. Before she got so big, Dean used to crawl into her lap for comfort, wrap his arms and legs about her and call it "hug a teddy bear" time. She never thought she would miss it so much.

"Who's my big boy?" she asks, gently.

"Me," he replies with a hiccup.

"And what do big boys do?"

Dean doesn't answer right away. "They're superheroes like Dad and Jimmy."

She's nearly sick. "No, big, big boys do that. Big boys, like you, take baths when they're asked and then, they come downstairs to read a story. Isn't that right, Cynthia?"

"That's what I heard, Mrs. Winchester," Cynthia agrees, her large eyes concerned. "I'll even put bubbles in for you."

Dean shakes his head. "I want to be a big, big boy."

"You will," her throat constricts because she never, ever wants him to be like John or Jimmy, "and one day, you'll be Sammy's superhero big brother and teach him big boy things. But you have to know exactly how to do them first, right?"

Dean looks up at her, frowning in childish confusion. "I guesses."

"Then you go with Cynthia so when Sammy's here, you can show him how to make bubble pyramids."

He plays with a bit of her hair and mumbles, "Okay, Mommy."

Cynthia leads him upstairs, his expression long suffering, hers patient, and Mary sags against the cushions. The terror has receded leaving her drained but determined. There are things that need to be done, preparations that need to be made, and despite her fatigue and her worries, she's the only one nearby that can do anything. Her legs don't shake quite as bad as she gains her feet and she limps to the kitchen to find the window open and Marjory starting a new supper. She's wearing a flowered apron to cover her simple slacks and shirt, and humming under her breath.

"You said you would rest," she admonishes as Mary sinks into a chair. Hard to believe that not so long ago, she sat in this chair with her biggest worry being her ritualistic visits to the bathroom. The glass of water still waits for her to finish it.

"Has John called, Marge?" she asks in reply, thinking of the baby bottles she has in the cupboard and the rosaries she keeps in her jewelry box.

Marge shakes her head. "Not yet, Mary, but he will as soon as they know anything." She sniffs and stirs what appears to be soup. "Horrible business, there. Jenna called animal control and they're out looking for the beast in case it's rabid. No doubt, Jimmy will need shots."

"Yes," she says, absentmindedly, now thinking of how she needs a silver blade so she can take the black dog down before the mere mortals reach it. First, the hospital to cleanse Jimmy's injury; then, the black dog; after that, oh God, she doesn't want to think of after that so she drinks her water instead. It tastes stale.

"I'm just glad you and Dean are all right," Marge says. "I thought that thing would rip everyone apart."

"It would," Mary murmurs. "And eat out their hearts."

Marge turns to her, eyes wide, "Pardon?"

"That's what feral dogs do, isn't it?" she covers quickly, smacking herself for her mistake.

Marge puts a hand to her lips. "I—I don't know. I've… I've never seen one before."

The phone rings and rescues her. She limps over to it and snatches up the receiver. "Hello?"

"Mary?" John's voice, rough, sweet, perfect; it's a balm on her aching heart. "You should be resting."

"How's Jimmy?" she asks, knowing that the pain will get worse, that the supernatural diseases will set in soon, that Jimmy will slowly be pulled into a dark and pained existence. Her mind travels to his eyes, to his words, and she shoves that away before it can panic her.

"In surgery," John tells her. "It… It doesn't look good, right now, Mary. He's pretty messed up."

John's voice is mournful and for some reason, her chest tightens in response. Maybe it's the similarity of Jimmy's gaze with Dean's eyes, his fretful calls for his mother, even, the funny suspicion that he looks a lot like a child she and John could produce. But even in the Supernatural world, that isn't possible, so she writes it off as channeling her husband's pain. "What do the doctors say?"

"Won't say a damned thing, the bastards," John growls low. "Don't want to commit to an answer. Said they'll give us a full report after he gets out of surgery but there's no telling how long that'll take. Crushed his shoulder like an egg and he about bled out before they got here. Has a rare blood type on top of it all." He trails off. "How's Dean?"

"Scared and a little bruised but he'll be okay," she comforts the best she can. He won't be, once she completes step three of her plan. "He thinks you and Jimmy are superheroes."

"Can I talk to him?" John asks, no, he's pleading.

"He's bathing," she wants to say yes, though, because it will make things better. Dean is one of John's footholds and she can feel her husband slipping. "John, I want to come to the hospital."

John's answer comes with his tough voice, one he only uses when he wants to win a fight before the fight starts. "You can't. The last thing you and the baby need is bad coffee and hard plastic chairs. You stay at home with Dean and I'll call you again when we know more."

"But, John," she protests, clutching the phone. Marge is watching her and she feels uncomfortable. "Please, I…I don't want to leave you alone."

"Jack's here," he says, his voice softer, gentler. But she wants the assurance of his arms and the kiss of his lips. "It'll be all right, Mary."

"I," she begins but she stops herself. "Call me as soon as he's out?"

"I promise," he says. "I love my girl."

"I love my man."

As she replaces the phone on the cradle and leans against the wall, she hopes that he'll still feel that way when everything falls into place.


End file.
